


To Be Forgotten

by Kalice_M



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Original Fiction, Psychological Horror, Thriller, Violence, mature - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 18:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16500476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalice_M/pseuds/Kalice_M
Summary: She woke up in a mysterious mansion with no remembrance of her name or how she'd gotten there. As she navigates dark corridors and attempts to make her escape, she documents her memories on a notebook provided by her alleged kidnapper. Haunted by visions of death, torture, rape, and fire, she will soon discover her evil truths and learn a lesson that would never be forgotten.Some say there is nothing more painful than being burned alive; she'd argue against it because there was nothing worse than being forgotten. And so, she vowed she would never be forgotten, even if she had to burn the world around her into nothing but ashes until it bowed to her feet.





	To Be Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> This story along with the characters belong to me. Please do not use them without my consent. If any character or event relates to a real life situation or person, it is purely coincidental. Feedback is welcome.

She jolted awake, cold in nothing but her small, white dress. A small white dress that wasn’t hers. Her eyes watered as she wrapped her arms around herself, the cold air filtering in through an open window along with tiny flecks of pure white snow.

_Where am I?_

Shifting to stand, she almost felt like hissing at the stone cold floors beneath her, the feeling of standing upon it similar to that of standing on sharp ice. She glanced around, looking for an exit; for some sign of where she was or something to give her a sense of identification. There was nothing; nothing except the stone floors and walls and the opened window along with the red curtain flowing in the direction of the wind.

_Who am I?_

She glanced down at her hands, flexing them with a twinge of curiosity. Her hand looked like that of a skeleton; tiny, bony, and far too fragile looking. Her skin, brown in most places, was a few shades lighter in others as if she’d suffered a painful burn. Her lips twitched into a smile. She liked the different shades; they were pretty.

She moved to stand before the window, glancing out into the dark, cold night. She couldn’t see anything if she’d wanted to. The snow was too thick, too blinding, and the tall trees served as a masquerade for the outside world. She could _dance_ , it felt so magical.

And so she did.

She let her eyes slip shut, one arm out in front of her as if around the waist of another, and the other held up, palm forward, as if pressed against the warm, soft flesh of another’s hand. Step by step, twirl by twirls, she danced and laughed and laughed and laughed some more.

She opened her eyes to find a man, tall and lanky with beautiful brown eyes and a long, crooked nose, staring back at her. She leaned in to press her forehead against his, her breath warm as she whispered: “I’ve missed you, Jakob.”

He chuckled, pecking his lips against hers. “I’ve missed you as well, my beauty.”

She felt a tremor go through her at the compliment. Now resting her head upon his shoulder, she worked up the courage to softly ask: “If you don’t mind me asking, who am I again?”

His step faltered only to pick right back up as if it had never happened. “I can’t remember.”

“Neither can I.” They danced on, silent for the moment, until she spoke up again. “Hell isn’t what I imagined it’d be like. I was looking forward to dancing among the flames.”

“Maybe this is Heaven?”

“That’d be nice, too,” she whispered even as she frowned a bit, letting herself be twirled by the man in front of her. She let her eyes slip shut again, imagining it. “Then I could dance among the clouds. I think I’d prefer Hell, though. Heaven would be too quiet; no one to talk to. Hell’s fires are so loud, though. So _obnoxious_ , but I think I like that about them. They’re so lively.”

She opened her eyes again and there was no one but herself; dancing on her own in the large, freezing room.

 

The cold was becoming too hard to bare and her stomach refused to stop growling, _twisting_ , no matter how many times she’d begged it to. She lay sprawled across the frigid floors, goosebumps scattered across her exposed arms and legs. She let out a long exhale, watching her icy breath fan above her before dispersing once more.

She glanced toward the dilapidated door to her right; tall, wooden, and covered in scratches like those from a deranged animal. It was unlocked. She’d even peeked out of it once when her curiosity got the better of her, but she didn’t leave the room. Probably never would.

There was nothing out there for her; nothing to give her any resemblance of hope. No food, no water, nothing. Just another door that she refused to pass.

A soft, melodic humming started up some distance away. It didn’t startle her. She’d heard it before but never quite this close and it seemed to be getting even closer. Her lips trembled and she crawled to the corner of the room, curled up into a ball, and whimpered to herself.

She didn’t know who steadily approached but she _did_ know she didn’t trust them. She _did_ know they had to have had something to do with what she was doing here and why she couldn’t even remember her own name. Perhaps… Perhaps, the woman would explain everything to her and then perhaps she could leave and merily forget about the entire experience. That was only a possibility and as the humming finally reached her door, the soft tune shattering her fearlessness in a matter of seconds as if a piercing scream, she suddenly felt like leaping through the window, no matter how high up she knew it was. Anything felt better than facing the sure to be monster who was now turning the door knob and stepping a long, bony leg through the door.

She held her breath as the woman revealed herself, but not completely. Her ungodly tall and bone-skinny form concealed within a long, black cloak. With her hood pulled over her head, her facial features were nothing but shadows. Her voice was raspy and mellow when she spoke. “Good afternoon, girl. Are you hungry?”

Only then did she notice the small plate of food within the woman’s hand and the bottle of presumably water held in the other. She shook her head, now trembling head to toe in fear and curling in on herself further. She broke out in a chorus of whispers.

“Witch… Don’t come closer. Stay exactly where you are… ”

The woman sat the food and water down of the floor beside her feet with a _clunk_. She held up a glossy journal, the purple cover gleaming in the light, and said, “As you navigate your way through the place, record what you remember. It might help you understand yourself easier.”

Setting that down beside the food along with a pen, she made her exit without another word, humming that strange tune once again. As soon as the sound could no longer be heard, she shot to her feet and darted towards the food; engulfing its contents without a second thought. As soon as she finished gulping down the provided water, she picked up the journal along with the pen. After turning to the first page, she scribbled something down.

 

_I’ve been kidnapped by some evil witch like those ditzy princesses from a fairy tale. The only difference is I can’t remember my name or how I’ve gotten here and I don’t think I have some prince charming coming to rescue me. I don’t know where I am. It almost seems as if I’m in some sort of castle but I wouldn’t know. I haven’t left the room I’d woken up in._

_I remember Jakob. He was so good to me and he seemed glad to see me again. I was glad to see him, too. We danced together for a bit but it seemed he had to leave early. Perhaps I’ll see him soon?_

 

With that said and done, she finally set about exiting the room and trailing into the next; journal in hand. She instantly took notice of the small, potted tulip in the corner of the room; shriveled up and wilted. She ran her finger over the ridges of the tulip, frowning as the plant withered into dust from the slightest of pressures.

When she was younger, her mother used to have a small garden out back; half full of flowers and half full of vegetables. She remembered the time she’d gotten the bright idea to rip them from their roots and eat them. She’d been only three at the time.

The one flower within the garden that’d managed to peak her interest had been the black roses. Up until the first day she’d seen them, she hadn’t even been so sure they existed. They were so mysterious looking; so _dark_. They seemed so less pretentious than the bright colored tulips and daisies. In her eyes, they were the most beautiful pieces of nature she’d ever laid her eyes on.

She set the dead tulip on the floor again, pulling out her pen and flipping her journal open. Things were starting to come to her… even if slowly.

 

_The sun had just gone down, the night quiet with the exception of the ever obnoxious cicadas outside of my kitchen window. My father was seated at the table, newspaper in hand. My mother was busy preparing dinner; some sort of soup that I’d grown accustomed to along with a small loaf of bread. The delicious smells of her cooking encompassed the room, making me more impatient than ever to shove some food down my throat. I was so idiotic at that tender age; so idiotically happy as if the world was problem free: perfect._

_My dad was smarter, though. So quiet and observant as if he was well aware that no one could be trusted; not even his own daughter and wife. At the time, I’d hated him for it, but now it made perfect sense. He wasn’t cold just to be cold. He was cold because he was smart and smart people never let their guard down. Not even for a moment. It was a surprise for him to be eating dinner with us at all. Most of the time, he’d disappear for periods of time only to show up later in a distant night with splatters of blood across his dark, cultured clothing; dried and already flaking._

_Each and every night it happened, my mother cried. I never quite understood why. No matter where he went or what he was doing, he always came home perfectly fine with a little extra cash to show for it._

_That particular night, however, my dad forgot what it meant to be smart; to not let your guard down. Two men approached our door, banging big, strong fists against it until my father finally took initiative and swung open the door. Maybe he’d gotten arrogant, maybe it just wasn’t one of his good days, but he lost._

_He’d lost the fight, lost his dignity, and lost his life._

_He had slunk to the ground, a knife plunged deeply into his heart and his blood seeped out around him. My mother screamed, screamed as if it would somehow bring him back, and told me to run._

_I didn’t._

_She’d taken a knife, one she’d just been using to chop the vegetables that would have went into the soup, and charged for the man. The man who had killed her husband along with her will to live. It was stupid, reckless, and with a strangled breath, she would soon lay beside my father._

_Their eyes remained open, cast up to the sky as if asking the deity above why their life had turned out this way. Why couldn’t it have been someone else? Why them?_

_I let the men drag me out of the house; let them trample over our garden as if walking around it wouldn’t suffice. As if they needed to add just a tad bit more salt into the wound. Their big feet left death in wake; as major as the death of my parents, and as minor as the deaths of dozens of small, helpless tulips._

_That became the last time I’d seen a tulip, or any flower for that matter, for a long period of time. Because after that, my life became dressing in pretty, delicate lingerie and laying on a smelly, uncomfortable bed; waiting to be mounted as if I were nothing more than a horse: an_ animal.

 _I didn’t fight back, but why would I? That’d be stupid, a battle lost, and I’m_ anything _but stupid._

 

She looked over the words she’d just written. The story seemed about right. _Perfect_ , even. She turned to her mother that stood at her side and smiled at her; a toothy, playful grin that had her mother frowning in disappointment.

“I never wanted you to turn out like your father.”

“Why not?” she asked curiously. “You obviously loved him, so which of his traits did you not want me to inherit?”

“None of them,” she murmured. “Not his cold empathy. Not his arrogance. Not even his strength. I always wanted you to grow up to become your own person. To find something in this world worth living for that wasn’t money, power, or sex. Something… beautiful. More meaningful.”

“Dad was always smarter than you,” she stated, matter of factly. “He always knew there was nothing beautiful about this world.”

She shrugged, her dark eyes falling to the ground beneath her. “Maybe so.”

Her mother turned to walk away, her steps soft and unhurried. Her dark, curly hair flew with the wind along with the white, frilly dress she’d always worn. She hesitated before stepping out of the door, turning to her with sad eyes.

“I’ll see you again sometime, my little duckling.”

And with that phrase, she made her departure. She frowned at the nicknamed her mother had used to refer to her. Maybe her mother had suddenly forgotten that she wasn’t a child anymore. She wouldn’t put it past the woman. The far too _idiotic_ woman.

She moved to enter the next room, surprised to see it wasn’t the same old plain room identical to the ones she’d just left. This room, if not for the stone walls and floors, almost resembled an art gallery. Large portraits of random people littered the walls.

She hated their faces; how utterly defeated each of them looked. As she did her rounds she frowned at the eyes that followed her around the room no matter where she went. The orbs presented in the portraits spoke volumes; way more than any words that could be said. She recognized those faces but she couldn’t put a finger on how.

Oh, well. She’d find out eventually.

“Do you know who they are?”

She jumped, startled by the raspy voice coming from behind her. She whirled around, clutching the pen in her hand tighter. Even as she trembled slightly from fear, she held the object within her hand like a weapon. “Come any closer to me and I swear I’ll shove this through your eyeball and straight to your brain, Witch.”

The woman let out a low laugh, well aware of how easily she could call her bluff without repercussion but apparently choosing to humor her. Gesturing to the portraits, she said, “These are the portraits of the lives you’ve ruined.”

“You’re crazy,” she muttered under her breath. “I don’t know these people… Even if I _did_ do something to them, they mean nothing to me so who cares?”

The witch took a few steps forward and she took some steps back, desperate to keep some sort of distance between them no matter what. The witch ran a hand over one of the portraits causing tiny particles of dust to fall to the stone floor beneath them.

The witch sighed. “Maybe the people that loved them? The people like me.”

“Well, what did I do to them?” She waited for an answer, but the witch only continued to stare at the portrait, her eyes holding those of the boy’s in the picture. She scowled, frustrated at the fact the witch was blatantly ignoring her. “Well, whatever. You’ll have to get over it at some point.”

Even as she said it, she couldn’t stop her curiosity. What had she done that impacted the lives of so many people? How can one small life like her own hold so much power over others?

She whispered her next question, unsure if she even wanted to know the answer. “Are they dead? Did I kill them?”

The witch finally turned to her, her voice gaining a twinge of anger. “Did you?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Figure it out yourself. I’m not here to tell you your entire life story. I know just as little as you.” The witch nodded at the journal in her left hand tellingly. “That’s what that’s for. My gift to you. Treasure the damned paper more than you treasured our people.”

“Our people?”

“Figure it out on your own,” the witch bit out, turning on her heel and making her way out of the room with haste.

If she wasn’t already terrified before, she certainly was when the witch slammed the door behind herself. She heard the click of a lock and with slow, cautious steps moved to test the door knob. The witch had locked the door; locked her in the room filled with portraits of people who wouldn’t stop staring at her with their sad, hopeless eyes.

Her heart sank in her chest; the beating getting louder and louder until she was sure it’d beat out of her chest. What an interesting way to go…

Her breathing picked up and she shrank into herself, curling up upon the ground just as tears began to leak from her dark eyes. Her white gown was blotched with patches of brown; residue from the less than pristine floor beneath her. She let out a scream, loud and high pitched and heart wrenching; enough to cool blood.

The sound bounced off the walls around her until the echos seemed to be screaming back at her. One by one, louder and louder, angrier and angrier until she could do nothing but whimper upon that cold floor and beg for the sounds to stop.

“Please… Please stop…”

She had no idea what she was referring to; the screams, the chilling of her blood, the trembles wracking her body, or maybe her heart?

She’d been locked up for enough of her life. Couldn’t the deity above let her experience peace if only for a moment? Just an hour… a minute…. a second… Anything. Anything to stop the insistent madness that wouldn’t stop trying to claw its way inside her and in turn, pushing out her sanity. Pushing it out as if it never held a place in her heart; as if it didn’t belong.

She turned to the portraits on the wall, a wild sob escaping her lips when she realized where the screams were coming from; their mouths. They didn’t look distraught anymore, their grief suddenly replaced with pure outrage. Their eyes were so _dark_ , so bloodshot, and all she could do was stare; stare with glossy eyes that begged them to _stop_.

Her ears wouldn’t stop _ringing_ ; ringing and ringing and ringing until she was sure they would burst along with her heart.

She’d almost forgotten she had had a heart. It functions everyday, pumping blood through her veins ever so softly; ever so secretively. It was deceiving, the way it functioned with the intention of keeping her alive and yet was so willing to stop whenever it felt like it: to end her life within a matter of seconds.

And she’d let it. Not because she _had_ to, but because she wanted to.


End file.
